It’s the end of the day and you want to play

and all I want to do is rest.

The day’s winding down, but that doesn’t matter to you two. You’re not thinking about the hours I’ve spent working—you’re focused on the hours I haven’t spent with you. And honestly, you’ve got a point.

You look at me with those big brown eyes—the same ones I see in the mirror—and ask, "Daddy, can we play?" My heart stirs, and the exhaustion of the day hits me all at once.

This morning, I told you both: after work, we’d play. But work ended hours ago, and since then, I’ve cooked dinner, locked myself in the bathroom for what felt like forever, and scrubbed the kitchen clean. All the while, I knew what you were waiting for.

Now, I’m finally sinking into the couch with a cup of coffee, craving a moment of quiet. But here you are again, with those same brown eyes, asking the same question: "Daddy, can we play?"

It’s technically bedtime. I can already hear the quiet that’ll come once you three are asleep—I want that quiet. I need it.

I’m not always the dad I want to be. I’m painfully aware of where I fall short. But I take a sip of coffee, exhale, and decide to be the dad you deserve. I put the cup down and say, "Let’s play." And we do. Longer than I planned. We get lost in the world you’ve created, where I’m the monster, and you two are the heroes, banding together to take me down.

And you know what? I enjoy every minute of it. Even though, just moments ago, I was this close to sending you to bed. Normally, that’s exactly what I would’ve done. You know it too—that’s why you looked so surprised when I got up from the couch. That look stings because it reflects all the times I’ve said no, the times I’ve chosen the rest or the chores, or the quiet over you. But I’m trying. Every damn day, I’m trying to be the dad you deserve.

Your older sister doesn’t ask to play anymore. Now it’s, "Hey Dad, can I have five more minutes on my phone for music?" I say, "I love you," all I get back is a "mhmm." Just the other day, she asked to buy lip gloss, and man, that still hits me a little.

When did her big, beautiful brown eyes stop looking at me with that question? When did her default response to "I love you" become "mhmm"? I notice these things now, and I’m trying to be part of her world however she allows, choosing time with her whenever she asks.

But man, it’s hard. It’s hard to get up from that couch when your body’s screaming for rest. It’s hard to choose play over peace. It’s hard to be the dad who says yes when it would be so easy to say no.

I’m working on it, though. I’m working on being the dad who gets up from the couch, says yes more often than no, and sees those big brown eyes and remembers that they won’t stay this small forever.

Some days, I long for that quiet, the moment I can finally sink into the silence of a house at rest. But I know the day will come when the house will always be quiet—too quiet—and I’ll miss the chaos, the laughter, and even the exhaustion.

Until tomorrow

John D